It's Called Tomorrow
by SometimeLonely
Summary: No Powers - Carrier AU - Clint and Phil were happily married when he was killed in action. They'd never been able to have a baby. So, how was it that one night with a soldier Phil admired, a soldier the press eventually called "Captain America" left Clint pregnant and with a decision to make?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer** **: I do not own and of the characters of _The Avengers_ or _Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D_ nor do I make any profit off of this work of fiction.**

 **Author's Note: This popped into my head and I couldn't move on with any of my other works in progress until it was finished. I don't know it it'll continue or not. If you have a chance, please let me know what you think! Thanks!**

* * *

He was still half asleep and bleary when he opened the front door to snow and cold and his best friend, her long curly red hair a riot of color against the bleak winter world. He focused on her intense eyes for just a moment before she moved a brightly colored box into his line of sight. He read the words on the box slowly before groaning and shuffling his way toward the kitchen, hitching his comforter up around his shoulders as he moved. He started the coffee in a daze and sat at the table. Natasha placed the box in front of him and tended to the coffee, just a few minutes later placing a steaming mug in front of him, just as he usually liked it, very blonde and lightly sweetened. He took a sip of his own as she sat at the table and made a face, trading his mug for her completely black, unsweetened one. He took a sip of that one and then winced again and pushed it back at her.

"There's only decaf in the kitchen, Clint," she said quietly, void of inflection.

"Just in case," He mumbled back, pushing the box out of the way and laying his head down on the table.

"Clint," She set a surprisingly gentle hand on his dirty hair and ran her fingers through it. He turned his head so that he could look at her, "You have to take the test."

"I know," He murmured, then sighed and turned his face to the table, hitting his head lightly on it repeatedly.

The corner of Natasha's mouth quirked up as she and she placed a glass of water in front of him, "Drink," She ordered gently, "Then you piss on a stick."

* * *

Clint was elbow deep in soil and flowers when they came to tell him. Luckily Nat had been with him at the time, her clothes, hair and make-up pristine as she sipped lemonade on the porch, refusing to garden with him though he'd almost begged. But, she was no fun and she didn't do dirt, so they'd been bantering back and forth, talking about his plans for when Phil was back home, the new romance she was brewing with the shy head of research at work, and just how much he missed his husband when he was deployed. She'd been his strength that evening, holding him up in her surprisingly strong arms when his legs threatened to buckle. He'd recognize how respectful and kind the team that had come to notify him had been, but as soon as they'd gotten out of the car his head had been filled with the sound of the ocean and his vision had tunneled until the only thing he'd been able to see what on the buttons on the dress uniform, shined to perfection, just like Phil's had always been when he'd gotten into full dress.

He'd signed the contact form in a trance. It was only after the two uniformed men had gotten back into the car they came in that the trance had broken and he'd fallen to his knees making a sound that he hadn't even known he could make, like the howl of a wounded animal. Natasha had curled herself around his back as he doubled over, not saying anything, not trying to give him words of comfort that could bring none, just trying to demonstrate to him that she was there. He would recognize later that he'd felt tears on the back of his neck and was surprised that she'd let them fall. He didn't know if it was minutes or hours before Nat uncurled herself from his back and he felt his neighbor, Thor, picking him up gently from the ground. He didn't have the strength or the inclination to fight as Thor's sweet, petite wife helped Nat get him in a shower and into pajama's after. When they'd put him in his bed, he'd closed his eyes and turned his back to them. Eventually he'd fallen asleep.

When he'd woken up the next day Nat had been in the bed with him, her face had been stoic and strong, but he'd known her for so long that he'd seen the grief in her eyes and she'd held him close as the tears came again. When he'd finally cried himself out for the moment she'd taken him downstairs and made him some soup that he barely touched. Then they curled up on the couch under Phil's favorite blanket said nothing until they both fell asleep again.

"How long does it say I have to wait?" Clint asked her as he turned the test stick around in his hand.

"Two minutes," She said quietly, "Do you want me to look first?"

"Nah," He almost giggled, a little hysterical, "I already know what it says, Nat. You already know what it says. I don't need the little plus sign to confirm what I already know."

"Then why are we waiting to see it?" She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"You have to ask me that?" He snapped.

The eyebrow went higher and he sighed, running a hand through his hair, "Sorry, Nat. I just…How can I try for six years with Phil and then one drunk night it finally…I…The universe is laughing at me."

"The universe is always laughing at us, _yastreb_. You just have to decide whether or not to laugh back."

"Yeah," He huffed a laugh out and almost managed a smile, "I'm laughing, Nat. I'm laughing."

He turned the test around so that they could both see the plus sign on the test stick.

* * *

He'd met Phil by chance when the washing machine in his apartment building had been on the fritz for the fifth time that month. Rather than wait for the three days it took for the parts to make it out and give the machine a couple more weeks of life, he'd decided to make the trek to the laundromat, despite the snow that was beginning to fall. He had noticed the man, older than himself by maybe a decade, competently and quietly doing his own laundry, in a distracted kind of way and had gotten his laundry underway, pulling out a novel that he'd been trying to get through for weeks. He'd never really read for pleasure, but since he'd gone back to school for his GED and then his bachelor's and had to read for class, he'd been trying. If he was trying to convince his young students that reading was necessary and, even, fun he had to try to make it so for himself. He'd been enjoying the story, but the words trying to float off the page and the letters changing places on him all the time made reading more hassle than it was worth most tof the time.

Phil had noticed his struggle and the moment Clint had looked up into his eyes, so kind and so very blue, he'd been enraptured. The moment he'd heard the man's reading voice, quiet and competent, he'd been lost. And it seemed Phil was the same way. He didn't care that Clint was an ex-carney turned high school teacher who had social anxiety, one true friend, and dyslexia. They'd seen each other almost every day for six months until it made more sense to move in together in Phil's place in Brooklyn with the small garden and the great layout than it made to stay apart. Nat finally met Phil and they'd gotten along like a house on fire, which surprised everyone involved. Finally, they'd married quietly with only Nat and Phil's parents present.

When Phil had been called back up for service, he'd felt obligated to go. He could have turned the tour down, he had enough pull, he was a doctor, not career military, despite his desire to serve. Clint hadn't been scared. Phil was the most scarily competent and surprisingly strong mad he'd ever known in his life. So, he'd given Phil a kiss, told him to stay in contact as much as possible, and waited at home. Phil had returned nine months later, tan, tired, a little more haunted, and full of stories about the men he'd served, mostly an eighteen-year-old nobody they'd all expected to wash out, too thin, too sickly. But, despite everything he'd made it through basic and well into his first tour. Phil had taken care of him a couple of times and they'd struck up a friendship, both loners in the midst of camp. Steve, as the young soldier's name was, had told him about his best friend back home, a couple years older, who'd lost an arm in the service and how he'd always felt that he couldn't do less, which had convinced him to work so hard to get into the service.

Phil had admired him, called him Private America, the best things about the American service. Clint had thought he sounded corny, a little young and idealistic, but he hadn't said anything. It was nice that Phil had found someone to believe in. The next five years they'd spent in mostly happiness, some arguments, some strife, like all married couples. They'd adopted a one-eyed dog they both adored and named him Lucky, and they'd tried for a baby. Again and again. They tried everything, fertilization treatments, multiple doctors. Clint got pregnant twice, but both times he'd lost the pregnancy just a few weeks in, and they'd both mourned. It was just after he lost the second pregnancy that Phil had accepted another tour, knowing they both needed a little time. They'd healed when they'd been apart, until they'd been desperate to see each other again, feeling stronger and more connected than ever before, spending as much time as they could video chatting and sending each other long love letters via email.

And that was when everything had gone wrong. Phil had only been three weeks from the end of his tour when the caravan he was travelling with had been hit. He'd acted heroically, as he always had, and he'd been killed for his efforts. After the funeral, after the worst of the grieving, Clint had shut himself off from romance, even the possibility of it, closed himself off from caring about anyone but Nat and his students.

And he'd sworn to never love again.

* * *

"What the fuck am I supposed to do now, Nat?"

They were sitting at the table and she was knocking back shots of vodka for both of them, seeing as Clint couldn't, though he was holding a mug of green tea under his nose to mask the scent. He appreciated her solidarity, but the smell of the vodka made him want to hurl more than the smell of the blonde coffee had.

"Well, Clint," she said, reasonably, despite the alcohol she'd already consumed (the bitch,) "That would depend on who the sire of the little parasite is. You have options. You could abort, adopt it out, without ever telling the sire…"

"No," he said immediately, "No. I couldn't do that to him. He's a good man."

"Is he really?" She sipped her latest shot instead of shooting it like the others, "Do you ever plan on telling me who this good man is?"

Clint raised his mug back to his nose and focused on the grain of the table. From the moment he'd found out he was a carrier when he was fifteen he'd sworn to himself that he'd never be put in this position, that he'd never carry. Phil had changed all of that. He'd loved him so much, he's thought that there was nothing better he could do to express the love that had grown between them than to give birth to their child, half him, half Phil, completely loved by them both. But, it hadn't worked out as they'd wanted and he'd thought that he never even have the opportunity to…until…He looked at Nat and lifted his eyebrow in a good approximation of her patented look.

It was probably the first time he saw her look genuinely surprised, "No."

He sipped his tea and nodded.

"Yep."

* * *

One the one-year anniversary of Phil's death Clint had only plan. He was going to go to work in the garden, because Phil had loved it so very much, then he was going to watch their wedding video that Nat had shot and get blazingly drunk before crying himself to sleep, Lucky tucked under his arm. But, it hadn't worked like that. As he'd been in the garden, helping things grow, getting them ready for the winter that was fast approaching, he'd been approached by another man in uniform. But, this one hadn't been in dress. He hadn't been approaching in any official capacity. He'd been young, nervous, and had his bag strung over his shoulder. Clint had been about ready to go into the house. He didn't want to speak with anyone dealing with the military ever again. But he'd been stopped by the earnestness in the guy's voice, his desperation to speak to Clint. Clint had given him a chance and a drink.

He was Steve, he explained, and Phil had been one of the best friends he had overseas. Clint had laughed at first. He remembered Phil's stories of Little Steve, the one who needed protection, the one who Phil admired so much. Steve had been suitably embarrassed as he explained that he'd finally hit his final growth spurt when he turned twenty and he'd put on about seventy-five pounds of muscle. He'd been putting it to use in his capacity as an officer, his rank earned in the field. He was a Captain now, he explained, but he wouldn't have been without Phil Coulson, who had been one of the few to believe in him, one of the few to take him under his wind and take care of him until he could take care of himself.

He'd explained over way too many glasses of the bourbon that Phil had loved and he hadn't touched since the day Clint'd been told that he'd died, that he'd admired Phil as much as Phil had seemed to admire him. He'd taken a kid under his wing, believed in his dream, and helped him become what he was. It had taken a few drinks, but finally Steve had admitted that he'd been there when Phil died, that he'd been part of the backup team sent in after it all went to shit, that he'd been holding Phil when he died. Phil had only had one thought on his mind, Steve explained, and that was his husband and how much he loved him. He'd been holding a photo of them in one hand and clutching a hand-written letter in his other hand. He'd begged Steve to deliver it to Clint in person when he could and had been at peace when he passed.

Clint hadn't realized how hard he was crying until he'd tried to take the letter from Steve's hand and realized that he couldn't really see it. Steve had tucked it into his hands and then wrapped himself around Clint in the best damn hug Clint had ever had. Even better than Phil's, and Phil's hugs had felt like coming home. It was only then that he'd allowed himself to feel just how lonely he'd been since Phil's death. And Steve, Steve had been so kind, so warm, s strong…and he'd been just been drunk enough and Steve had been just drunk enough that it had all felt like a good idea. They'd both loved Phil in their own ways and they both missed him like hell.

When Steve had made love to him he'd cried, not because of Phil, but because he realized just how different Steve was from Phil. He and Phil had always had a good sex life but Steve…Steve had fucked like a train. He'd demanded his pleasure from Clint and torn Clint's from him like he demanded that too. Clint's throat had been hoarse from crying out by the time they were done and he'd been exhausted, almost unable to move. When Steve had collapsed next to him he'd almost been able to forget about the loneliness and the pain. And when Steve had kissed him, lazily, stoking him to another orgasm, he'd almost felt like he was healing.

So, of course, in the morning, he'd unceremoniously kicked Steve out the next morning when they awoke, and spent the rest of the day curled up with Phil's favorite sweatshirt that no longer smelled of him and cried.

* * *

"You bedded the Captain?" Natasha asked, her mouth still open in surprise, "The Captain? Phil's Captain? The only other man I've ever seen him get a hard-on for other than you? Hypothetically speaking? Captain America? The one who was awarded the medal of honor for his actions the day Phil was killed, rescuing almost the rest of the convoy single-handedly and carrying Phil's body back to the base in his arms?"

Clint flinched and laid his head down on the table, making a show of taking his aids out before he turned his head away from Natasha and pointedly closed his eyes. As if he hadn't already felt horrible enough about what he'd done, what he'd allowed himself to do, and how he still felt about it.

He jerked his head up from the table and yowled, he was sure, like a cat when Natasha dumped a glass of cold water on his head and held out his aids to him.

"We were both mourning," he said quietly, as he put his aids back in, "It was the one year anniversary and he had come to give me Phil's last letter…He…We both drank too much and we just…we needed each other, I guess. I…he…"

"You kicked him out the next morning in a panic," Natasha guessed, but it wasn't a question.

"Yeah," Clint admitted.

"Because he made you feel something again other than your grief?"

"I…yeah." It was no use arguing when Nat was only telling the truth.

"And it scared you."

"Yeah."

"Because you felt like you were being disloyal to Phil."

He huffed out a breath and felt his shoulders curl in, "Yeah."

" _Yastreb_ ," she sighed, "You know Phil would want you to be happy. Who better to be happy with than someone else who loved him?"

"I just…He's so fucking young, Nat."

"Bullshit," Natasha spat back at him, "He's ten years younger than you just like you were ten years younger than Clint. It's not the insurmountable difference you would make it out to be."

"What if he only want to be a father to the baby and he doesn't want…me?"

"That's the rubbing point isn't, _Yastreb_?" She set her hand to his, which, from anyone else, would have been a maternal hug, "You're afraid, after your fear, that he won't want you? You're afraid you ruined what could have been a good thing. You're afraid that you're betraying, Phil."

"All of the above," He admitted.

"And who says you only get to have one great love in your life, Clint?"

He looked into her eyes in shock, unable to say a word.

"Go," she said gently, "Get in the shower and clean yourself up. His roommate is one of my boss's pet projects. I'll drive you."

" _Phen_ of my heart," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair.

"Go," She wrinkled her nose, "You smell."

* * *

Two hours and four minor freak-outs later he found himself in front of a brownstone in Brooklyn that, in and of itself, made his heart flutter a little, it was so beautiful, so well upkept. He rang the old-fashioned bell, please at the old-fashioned sound it made, and stepped back. When Steve came to the door, splattered in paint and looking about as nervous as Clint felt, all of the thoughts went out of his head.

"Clint," Steve murmured as he opened the door, "Didn't expect that I'd ever see you again."

Clint said the only thing that came into his head.

"Hi, Steve."


	2. Chapter Two

**All Previous Disclaimers Apply.**

 **A/N: Had just a little more of this story to tell. I hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

"Come on, Steve. Come on," Clint murmured as he held the warm, limp hand between both of his own, almost unable to speak around the tears that he was refusing to let fall and so were instead stuck in his throat, "You can't do this to me, baby. Please don't do this to me. You come back to me. Come back to me right now and we'll get married just like you wanted. I'm so sorry I hurt you. I was only scared, sweetheart. I love you. I do. I want to marry you."

"He knows, Clint," Bucky's voice was the first thing he heard aside from his own and the intermitted tone of the heart monitor that was one of the only things, aside from the warmth of Steve's skin, that informed him that Steve was still alive.

He'd always heard that when someone was unconscious they looked like they were sleeping. Clint might have been able to handle it if Steve looked like he was sleeping. He might have been able to pretend that Steve had fallen asleep on his couch again or that he'd fallen asleep in Steve's bed while the man was sketching him, as he always tended to do. But, Steve didn't look like he was sleeping. His eyes were closed, true, but they were surrounded by deep blue/black bruises. There was gauze taped on his left temple, covering a deep gash that had already been stitched, Clint knew. His lip was split, his left leg was casted all the way up to his hip, his right leg had a stitched wound that had gone almost from knee to his hip, and his chest and abdomen were covered with bandages under his hospital gown. His hands were the only things that had been blessedly spared from injury and when Clint had seen it he'd broken down crying. Steve would be devastated if he wouldn't be able to do his art when he awoke.

If he awoke. The doctors had been very careful not to give them false hope in the three days they'd been there since he'd been brought it, the victim of a hit and run just a block from the brownstone he shared with Bucky and Sam, his best friends.

"He does, man," Sam agreed with Bucky, a rare occurrence, "Swear he does. Now, come on, you need to get some food in you, have some rest."

"No," Clint shook his head, not turning to look at either of them, "No. Not until Steve can tell me we're going to get married."

" _Yastreb._ "

Well, it just wasn't fair to bring Natasha into things. She never played fair. He stiffened when she put her hand on his shoulder.

" _Yastreb_ , you need to rest. The babies need you to rest."

"Low blow, Nat," he growled from deep in his throat.

But, it broke the spell of feeling that he needed to be with Steve. Because Natasha was right. He wasn't doing him or the babies any good sitting in the chair that was hurting his back, without food. It wouldn't change that Steve was still lying in the bed, unmoving and injured. Steve would want him to take care of himself, and their children. He groaned as he tried to stand, and found that he couldn't without help, his distended belly getting in the way, and throwing off his center of balance. He rubbed his hand over it, trying to soothe the active babies inside, before he accepted the help that Sam and Natasha offered. He leaned over to place a gentle kiss to Steve's forehead on the opposite side of the bandage.

"We'll be back soon, sweetheart."

* * *

Steve's reaction to finding out that he was going to be a father was the best reaction that Clint could have asked for, all things considered. After his initial shock wore off, he accepted the idea enthusiastically. He asked if he could come to Clint's first doctor's appointment, he researched to the ends of the earth and annoyed the hell out of Clint with a constant stream of texts about his discoveries, and constant questions about how Clint was feeling, if he needed anything, if he wanted anything. Clint tried to answer him honestly and kindly. His annoyance at Steve wasn't really annoyance at Steve at all.

He was angry. He was angry at himself for getting drunk enough to forget protection. He was angry that he'd slept with Steve at all that night. He was angry that he'd needed him that night. And he resented the hell out of Steve because he obviously already loved what was growing in Clint's belly while Clint was still struggling to accept that it was even there.

But, it all changed at that first appointment. Steve was careful not to touch him, obviously picking up on his displeasure with everything. He didn't even try to keep up a conversation as they sat in the waiting room. He simply read the pregnancy book that he'd bought, and somehow that just pissed Clint off more. He'd grunted his answers at the doctor when she asked them, telling her that by his figuring he was about 12 weeks along, acknowledging that he was coming to her a little late in the game, but admitting that he'd been taking over the counter prenatal vitamins and avoiding the foods he'd found on the internet for weeks, always suspecting what was going on. He'd only scowled when she'd praised him for his actions and admitted that she often didn't see carriers before about their twelfth week anyway because it was harder to tell when a carrier was pregnant at the beginning than a woman. Clint didn't admit to her or to Steve that, truthfully, he'd known within a week that he was pregnant. Didn't know how, but he'd known.

"We'll need to make an appointment for you to have an ultrasound at our location up north, but we do at least have a fetal doppler here. Want to hear the heartbeat?"

Clint had shrugged, but Steve had been enthusiastic, so he'd put up with pulling up his shirt and waited. It hadn't taken the doctor long to find it and the moment he'd heard the whooshing sound fill the room it had all become truly real. He had a little person growing in his belly. A baby. His breath had caught and tears had come to his eyes. In that single moment he'd fallen in love with the baby in his womb. Completely and irrevocably. Then, he'd felt panic grip him when he'd turned to the doctor and she was frowning.

"What is it?" His voice had come out high and tight with his panic.

"Just a moment," She murmured, and slid the wand to the other side of his belly. The heartbeat faded for a moment and then came back just as strong. She smiled at him and he felt himself relax, "I thought I heard an echo. Congratulations. We'll need an ultrasound to be certain, but I'm 99% sure that you're having twins."

Clint had turned to Steve and the radiant look on the younger man's face had made his breath catch. He hadn't known what made him do it, but he hadn't hesitated to fist his hand in Steve's shirt and pull the man down into a hard, passionate kiss.

* * *

"Feeling a little better?" Natasha asked, as she watched him pick at the remains of the salad in front of him. He'd eaten what he could, but she knew that the bigger he got the harder it was for him to eat much. The babies just took up too much room, so he tended to eat small meals more often, instead of large amounts in one sitting.

"Yeah," he admitted reluctantly, leaning back and rubbing a hand over his stomach where the babies were moving around excitedly, effected by the food. He winced when one of them dragged a foot along his ribcage. God, this last part of being pregnant sucked. He'd already gone longer than his doctor expected at the beginning, telling him that twins tended to come early and small. But, it felt like he had two bowling balls bouncing around in there at 38 weeks.

Natasha reached out and set her hand to the one he'd left on the table.

"He's going to be okay, Clint."

"I know." Clint murmured.

"You do?" Natasha's eyebrow went up.

"He has to be," Clint shrugged, "Because I…I don't know if I'll survive losing another love, Nat. And he wouldn't do that to the babies."

* * *

They'd taken things slowing as they prepared for the babies to come. Steve was every bit the gentleman, never assuming that Clint was ready for more than he was. He still kept up his barrage of texts about the pregnancy and Clint's health, but when it came to their relationship he was almost old-fashioned in how slow he took it. Almost like he was courting Clint. He sent him flowers. He asked him if he'd like to go on walks. He asked if he could come over and do anything to help him, but he didn't hover when he was over, working in the yard companionably with Clint in silence, never trying to get him to stop the things that gave him the most pleasure. It was the day that he brought Clint's favorite lunch by the school that Clint knew he was going to fall in love with the younger man who blushed and ran a hand through his blonde hair in an adorably shy fashion when he asked Clint on a proper date.

So, they'd started dating, first once a week, then twice or three times a week. Sometimes they went out, sometimes they stayed in. And with every date Clint's love and guilt grew. In very many ways Steve was a much better partner for him than Phil had ever been. Clint and Steve had more in common. They both loved museums and art, Phil had loved comic-cons and collecting. With Phil Clint had always felt like he needed to fill the silence, keep his attention. With Steve they could be silent for hours, Clint preparing his lessons, Steve working on a sketch, but it was never uncomfortable between them. In fact, it was when they were silent that Clint was able to learn all of Steve's expressions and what they meant. Phil had always been something of an enigma, but Steve…Steve was an open book, everything he felt was always on his face. He never minded when Clint took out his aids, and had in fact thrown himself into learning ASL. Phil had always seen Clint's deafness as something to get around, encouraging him to try the newest pair of aids that his friend Tony Stark had developed. It wasn't that Phil hadn't loved him the way he was. He had. So much. But, he'd always wanted to help Clint be, and do, better, never really understanding that maybe Clint was happy the way he was.

It wasn't that Steve and he never fought. They did. And sometimes it could get loud and one of them would storm out. Steve had a temper to match Clint's own and they both knew where to hit the other so that it hurt the most. He could leave a fight with Steve either steaming mad or sobbing and he knew that he'd left Steve the same way more than once, but instead of freezing each other out for days at a time, the way he and Phil had done, they would allow themselves to calm down, then they would sit down together, talk about what had caused the fight, why they'd felt like they did, and figure it out together.

Clint had just been starting to show when they'd gone to bed together again. He'd almost convinced himself that the first time had been so good because of alcohol and their shared grief, but he'd quickly been proven wrong. Everything that had been good that first time, was multiplied when they weren't drunk. Steve had taken everything from him and filled him up again until he was sobbing with pleasure and clinging to the man. And when they were done, he'd held Steve close to his heart as the younger man clung to him, one hand on his belly as he spoke quietly to the children Clint was carrying, introducing them and telling them just how much he already loved them. That was the moment that Clint had fallen completely.

* * *

"Clint, man, you okay?" Sam's voice was comfortably loud, unlike the whispers that they'd all used when Steve had first been brought to the hospital. It had been another week and, while Steve still hadn't woken up, the doctors were all extremely hopeful. They'd told Clint and Bucky the day before that Steve was healing at a remarkable rate, and they were cautiously optimistic that he would wake soon. They'd taken him off of the medication that had been keeping him in a medically induced coma to help him heal and the most recent scans had shown good brain activity.

"He's a fighter," Bucky had grunted, always a grumpy ass, "Got a lot to fight for."

Bucky had always been the one that hadn't seemed to like Clint much, so the words had surprised him, but they hadn't talked about it. The look they shared after had been enough.

"Yeah," Clint answered Sam with wince, "I'm just in labor."

"Got it," Sam looked back down at his book for a moment before his head whipped back up, "What?!"

* * *

Clint had known that Steve was planning to propose for at least a week before it actually happened. The younger man was being dodgy, which was very unlike him, and avoiding Clint if he could, which was very like him because Steve was very self-aware and he knew that he wasn't able to hide a single solitary thing on his earnest face. But, the longer Steve took to actually ask the question, the longer Clint had to doubt. He loved Steve, he knew he did, but it wasn't even two years since Phil's death, and what did it say about the love he'd had for Phil that he'd been able to fall in love with someone else so quickly after Phil was gone? The deeper Clint had fallen in love with Steve, the deeper and darker his guilt became. It was so bad that he hadn't even been able to actually say that he loved Steve no matter how much he felt. Every time he tried, the words caught in his throat, closing it and forcing him to step away just so he could breathe. He knew it wasn't healthy, knew that he really should be talking to someone about it, Natasha at the very least, but he hadn't.

And it had all come to a head at the worst possible moment.

They'd been sitting on the couch, watching a show that they both enjoyed, Clint rubbing his massive belly to soothe the children inside of him and Steve rubbing his sore feet and ankles. Clint had been bitching about his decision to work until the babies came, siting that fact that he was so sore all of the time, both in feet and back, and that he was so exhausted some days that just walking around the class to collect papers was a chore. And, somehow, it was just annoying how supportive and understanding his high-schoolers were being. They'd started collecting the papers for him, but he had to draw the line when they'd tried to take turns writing on the board for him so that he could teach them from his chair.

Steve had laughed gently at his bitching, the low, sexy laugh that got to Clint every time, even when he was as big as a house and felt about as sexy as Grandma's underpants.

Then, Steve had looked at him, and Clint had tensed, knowing what was coming next.

"I…I had everything planned out to do a big, romantic dinner tomorrow, and the flowers and the music and the whole nine yards, but that's not us," Steve said quietly, "This is us and I…Clint, will you marry me?"

"I…" Clint had put his feet down and struggled into a sitting position. He'd felt the panic taking over, but hadn't been able to push it down enough to react in an intelligent way and had let the panic speak for him, "I…No, Steve. God, no, I'm not going to marry you."

What had followed was the worst fight they'd ever had. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Clint knew everything he was saying to Steve was a bullshit, but it was like he wasn't in control, like there was someone else controlling everything he said. How they wouldn't even like each other if Clint hadn't gotten pregnant, how Steve could never match up to Phil, how Clint hadn't told him he loved him because he didn't feel it. It was only later that he realized the everything he'd spat at Steve were fears he had about himself. Would Steve have even liked him if he hadn't gotten pregnant? How could Clint ever be enough to be with Steve, who was so good, and so beautiful? And what if Steve hadn't said he loved him because he just…didn't?

When Steve had stormed out it had taken all of the strength Clint had left just to make it to the bedroom and curl around his babies to cry. He'd fallen asleep that way, only waking when his phone kept ringing insistently a couple of hours later.

"Hello?"

"Clint, it's Sam. Hey, man, Steve was in an accident on his way home. It's…it's not looking good. It would probably be best if you got here."

* * *

"Okay, come on, Clint. You can do this. Big push for me now!"

Clint had vetted his doctor very carefully when he was considering who would help him bring life into the world, but at that moment he was hating her more than anyone else he'd ever met. How the hell could she expect him to push when he was so exhausted? Couldn't they just finish this another day? He wasn't actually ready to have the kids, not when Steve couldn't see them right away. Bucky had come by with the news that Steve was awake and raring to see Clint, but that the doctors were keeping him under control, and Bucky had somehow been roped into staying for the birth, though he looked terrified of everything happening, by Natasha.

"Just a little longer, _yastreb_ ," Natasha held his hand and pressed her forehead to his temple, "You are so strong. Bring them into the world, Clint. You can do this."

"I can't…" Clint sobbed, letting his head fall back.

"You want me to tell Steve you wimped out of this?" Bucky's voice was a hard as his grip was supportive, "You want me to tell him there's another reason you're not good enough for him?"

Anger and renewed energy surged through Clint and he whipped his head up to glare at Bucky, never actually letting go of the man's hand, "Oh, fuck you, Barnes! I'm having these babies and then I'm marrying the hell out of Steve and there isn't shit you can do about it!" He ended on a yell and bared down with all his might.

"Dick move, Barnes," he murmured an hour later when it was all over, he and the babies had been cleaned up, and he was holding the girl in his arms, Natasha cooing over the boy.

"Hey," Bucky shrugged, unrepentant, "It got you there."

"Yeah," he didn't have the energy to be angry, "It did. Thanks."

"No problem," Bucky ran a finger down the baby's little hand, "I'm going to go tell Steve that he's got some little wrinkled people down here who want to meet him, if the doctors haven't sedated him." He rolled his eyes and Clint chuckled softly.

"Thanks, Bucky," Clint smiled, "And could you also tell Steve that he has a fiancé down here that needs to talk about names for our children?"

Bucky smiled, and it was the softest look he'd ever seen on the man's face, "You got it."

* * *

In the end Rory Phillip Rogers and Imogen Sarah Rogers went home a week before their father was released from the hospital, everyone healthy and happy. The doctors commented that Steve's eagerness to be home with them seemed to have helped him heal faster and better than anyone had expected.

Eighteen months later they were ringbearer and flower girl at their dads' wedding. All of the pictures that littered their home from that day showed them grumpy, crying, and ecstatic at different points in the day, but the happiness on Steve and Clint's faces, with them and with each other, never changed.


End file.
